


I hate Vomiting

by PropShopHannah



Series: Throne of Glass prompts and asks [15]
Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Manorian, manorian angst, pregnancy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 02:32:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10981515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PropShopHannah/pseuds/PropShopHannah
Summary: Got an ask for some Manorian pregnancy fluff!





	I hate Vomiting

 

Dorian Havilliard walked into his private chambers after a long, arduous meeting—and was surprised to find Manon lying on their bed. It was half past noon, she was never home during the day.

“Why aren’t you training?” He asked, walking over to the closet. 

“I don’t feel well.” Her voice was laced with annoyance.

He removed his coat and stuffier pieces of clothing and then padded over to her. There was an untouched glass of water, a pile of untouched crackers, and a bucket. “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?”

She opened her eyes long enough to glare at him. “No.” Her breathing was heavy, overly rhythmical. He reached out and touched her forehead with the back of his hand. “I don’t have a temperature,” she hissed.

“Just making sure.” He began to sit down on the edge of the mattress.

“If you shake this bed, you’re a dead man.” 

He immediately stood up, like a child who’d been scolded, and opted to pull up a chair. He hated seeing her like this. “Would you like me to call a healer?”

“What’s a healer going to do? Tell me an endless amount of witches and women have been pregnant and survived morning sickness, so I should suck it up?” Her eyes were still closed.

“They might have something for the nausea,” he offered rather sheepishly. He was starting to feel guilty. It was  _ technically  _ his fault. Not that they both hadn’t had a hand in it. But she was the one who had to deal with the pregnancy. If he was being honest, he felt a little helpless.

“I’m fine… I’m just… hot.”

It was the most she was going to ask for help, and Dorian took the cue. 

He stood and began to slowly remove her shoes. She didn’t seem to mind. Even helped him by picking her leg up some. Then her hands went to her belt, and he took that cue, too. He helped gently pull her pants off, using his magic to stabilize the bed as he slide them down.

When he moved to remove the leathers she wore over her shirt she pursed her lips and said, “Uh-uh.” Her eyes wrinkled shut, her whole body tensed. One of her hands moved to the edge of the bed, in the direction of the bucket. A small whimper escaped her throat. 

He waited until the wave of nausea subsided before he touched her again, to lay a thin sheet over her legs. She didn’t object. He stood over her, called the ice and frost to him and gently placed his hands along her upper arms. Careful not to rub or jostle her. The tension in her face eased and she bent her head toward one of his hands. He moved it to cup her face. She leaned into the touch.

He placed his other hand against her neck. “Tell me where.”

“This is good, but maybe my forehead and above my ears. And my arms—my arms are hot.”

“If you can’t move, I cut the leathers off, leave you in your shirt.”

She smiled faintly, eyes still closed. “I might take you up on th—” She clamped her jaw shut as another wave of nausea rolled through her. Her body tensed and she bent her knees up beneath the sheet. Her face scrunched together. A moment later, her arm reached down, fumbling blindly for the bucket.

“Don’t move I got it.” With his magic, he moved the bucket to her hand. She gripped it hard, knuckles turning white. “Deep breathes. In through your nose, and slowly out your mouth. In through your nose”—she gripped his wrist with her free hand and breathed in time with him—“and slowly out through your mouth.”

They did this several times.

When the nausea passed, Manon opened her eyes. They were glossy with unshed tears. She blinked them away. “I hate vomiting.” 

He put the bucket back on the floor and smiled. “It’s fine if you have to. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“No,” she said, sliding her hand from his wrist to take his hand. “I hate it. It _ frightens _ me.” 

“Why?” He wasn’t sure what she was about to say, but the way her face looked, the way her eyes darted from his then away… 

“When I was a witchling, heights used to make me dizzy. One time when I was learning to fly, the Matron though she’d toughen me up by pushing me off my broom. We were barely above the treeline, so I didn’t tumble very far, but when I woke up on the ground I couldn’t stop vomiting. I’ve hated it ever since.”

Dorian squeezed her hand, and used the other one to cup her face, cooling it. He kissed her temple. “I’m so sorry, witchling.” She only shrugged. “That’s why you never drink much alcohol isn’t it? Why you always cut your food up into tiny piece and chew forever before you swallow.” It wasn’t a question. 

She nodded. “I think if I choke, I’ll gag and then start vomiting.”

He cocked his head to the side. “But you’ve no problem swallowing  _ other  _ things…” 

A smile bloomed across her face and she laughed. “That’s different. I have control of that. This,” she looked away, “this is different.”

He leaned down to kiss her forehead again. “How can I help? What can I do?” He leaned his forehead into hers.

Her eyes looked wary, unsure. “Stay with me? Just in case?”

He kissed her again. “I can do that, witchling. I’d be happy to do that.” He kissed her again on the temple and moved the chair to sit closer to her. She smiled. And Dorian Havilliard knew he’d happily spend every day of the rest of his life making her smile.


End file.
